


But Don't Owls Eat Moths?

by Squidink



Category: Minutemen - Fandom, Watchmen (Comic), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s typical mindsets, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Assault, M/M, Minutemen, Obligatory Cape Reference, Pre-Canon, Unfortunate Implications, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-16
Updated: 2009-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:39:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidink/pseuds/Squidink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hollis and Byron get on like a house on fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Don't Owls Eat Moths?

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: unfortunate 1940's mindsets in regards to homosexuality, rape, etc. This is pretty canon compliant, and everything unfortunate is mostly implicit and slightly off screen. If you feel confident that you could withstand the comic itself, this should give you no problems.

Hollis and Mothman were one of those weirdly inexplicable friendships, the kind where you fall in with someone immediately without rhyme or reason.  Their worldviews were wildly at odds, but they get on like a house on fire.  Perhaps it is their respective dispositions: both are somewhat forgiving men, despite their nighttime hobbies, and are inclined to avoid discontent and confrontation when it is an easy matter to change the subject.  Hollis is fairly set in his ways, but Mothman is good at compromise, at bringing people to a middle ground.

Except in this.

"No," Hollis says, without particular ire but firm nonetheless. "No, it can't work.  It would never work."

"It's perfectly legitimate.  Really.  Just look at the Manifesto—"

But Hollis is already wagging his head, raising his hand to forestall the argument he's already heard once tonight (and three times this week). "On paper.  Paper is not the same as people.  It just won't work.  It's… it's a nice _idea_ , Mothman, but…" Hollis pauses, rubs the back of his neck through his costume and tries to reason a civil way of telling Mothman that Communism is the worst idea to ever have ventured from overseas, and that's saying quite a lot from Hollis’s perspective.

Mothman's face falls, and Hollis is immediately and disconcertingly guilty.   Mothman so carefully detailed out how it worked, had obviously spent a great deal of time working out his argument, but Hollis just can’t understand why such a smart guy like Byron would go in for _Communism_ of all things.  Hollis has a sinking and secret suspicion it’s all in higher learning; he’s always had a deeply felt skepticism of over-education, and its ties to soft liberal bias.  It erodes values, makes you scrutinize things that don’t need to be looked at twice.  Mothman sighs, and his heels drum against the brickwork, careless at 450 feet in their air.  Hollis squints down past him at the flashy signs, the happy couples darting between taxis.

Mothman glances up at him, in that timid and insistent way he has. “It's more than a nice _idea_.  It's a wonderful philosophy.  It's about— about unity, and stability, and giving.  Most of all, it’s about the _people_.  You should love it; it assumes the best nature in humanity.  If you maybe read more Marx…?" Mothman’s voice rises hopefully.

"Maybe," Hollis offers grudgingly.  It’s only a little white lie because he really doesn't want to talk about this, not with Mothman.  Even if Hollis the only one Byron really _can_ discuss it with – openly, at least – because heroes stick together, and, strangely enough, being masked adds a whole new kind of honesty to a relationship.

And it's nice, to be candid with someone, even if they don't often agree – well, they agree on what counts, on what _matters_ , like justice and ideals and the American way.  Mostly, at least.

Almost not thinking about it, Hollis pats Mothman fondly on the back, between the wings, smiling in that crooked way of his, and nods to the fire escape. "Meet you on third in an hour?"

Mothman smiles back, just a bit, and it never occurs to Hollis to wonder why his hand stays on Byron’s shoulder just a little longer than strictly necessary.

"Yeah, sure," Mothman says, breaking the moment.

Hollis takes back his hand, already turning to head for the stairs, waves over one shoulder. "See you then."

"See you."

Hollis goes down the fire escape two at a time, thinking about designing a jacket and some thicker pants.  The cold is starting to get to him.

 

\--

Most people likely wouldn't think much of him, if they passed him on the street.  But Hollis knows where and how to hit, and how to ration his energy, and that is what makes him a force to be reckoned with.  He doesn't have the raw power of Hooded Justice, or the Comedian's dockside tricks, but he can hold his own in a fight, when it comes down to it.

This doesn't mean he's invulnerable.

Hollis rests his back against the wall, hand pressed firmly over the long, shallow wound on his thigh.  The knife had been clumsy, an amateur's strike made with more dumb luck than skill, but it aches enough to make the walk back longer than it has any right to be.  Hollis should have seen it coming, in the mad-eyed desperation of the man when he first happened upon him, in the reek of cheap booze and dim prospects.  His instincts should have been honed to a fine point by now, between his day job and late night adventuring.

But he hadn't, and now he's paying for his sloppiness.  Hollis shoves away from the wall again, and continues on his way, keeping out of the way, out of the lights, because he knows what happens when you show weakness; it's bad enough when he's wearing a badge, it's worse when he's wearing a mask.

"Hey!  Hey, H— Nite Owl!" And Mothman is stumbling as he lands, jogs lightly to dispel his momentum and come to Hollis's side. "I thought I saw— oh my, what happened?" Without asking permission or hesitating in the slightest, Byron slips up under Hollis's arm, taking his weight onto his thin shoulders. "Here, let me…"

Hollis leans on him gratefully, hopping as best he can to keep up.   Mothman clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth occasionally, admonishing, but his stride doesn't waver, and his arm is warm and supportive across Hollis's back all the way back.

At the entrance, Hollis stops, catches on the doorjamb, inches from comfort but wanting to say this now. "Thanks Byron.  Really.  I don't know if I could've made it by myself."

"No, no, it's fine," Byron says, then pauses half a beat. "You should dress more sensibly, like me." He gestures at himself with one long sweep of his arm, wings fluttering, and grins.

Hollis laughs, quick and loud, as was his wont, and promises to take Byron's words under advisement.

\--

"—next I know, Moloch is launched straight up in the air and ends up hanging by the edges of his fingers, screaming like a loon for me to get him down." Hollis chuckles, and sets both elbows on the table despite the twinge of guilt at his manners.  Across the table, Byron grins, running the tip of his finger around the lip of his third bottle.  His usual sense of constant nervous tension has fled more with every drink, and now he sprawls back in his chair, one arm slung over the back, legs splayed out to either side.  Beside him, Dollar Bill is quietly snoring, his head resting on his forearm and beer still clutched resolutely in one loose fist.

"Oh, my," Byron says, polite as anything, and takes another drink with the ease of a long-time bar hopper. "I take it you got him down again?"

Hollis shrugs, rolls his own bottle between his palms. "No, no, I left him there.  He would have been fine; wasn't a long drop, six feet maybe, sprained ankle at worst.  He doesn't have a head for heights, I think.  I waited until the police showed up, and they took him downtown."

"Ah," Byron says, tilting his head one way, then the other.  His eyelids seem to too heavy for him to bear, sliding down to half lidded slits. "Well, _I_ like heights.  I think I have a head for them."

"Sure, sure," Hollis says, and they lapse into companionable silence, just two regular joes in a huge base dressed up like an owl and a moth, respectively, to fight crime.

It's just perfect.

\--

"Oh my God," Byron keeps saying, quietly, over and over like he can't quite bring himself to voice any other opinion, must confront it indirectly.  He's been sitting on the bench, elbows on his knees and both hands fisted over his mouth, moth wings shaking.

Hollis shakes his head slowly, mouth drawn and grim, leaning up against his locker.  He is not by nature a violent man, or a cruel one.  Tonight, however, he might make an exception.  "It's disgusting.  I shook that man's hand, I called him a friend." Hollis grimaces, rubs his face with one hand, presses his fingers tight against his eyelids, until spots of color bloom in the darkness. "How could he?  How _could_ he, to one of us, one of our own?"

"My God."

"I'm glad he's out.  God, I can't even think about—" Hollis slams his palm into the locker, and is almost guilty when he sees Byron startle out of the corner of his eye.  He can’t, he just can’t, not tonight.  Nothing will be done about it. Sally won't be pressing charges and Eddie already took off, and Hollis just really wants to yell, to punch somebody, to drag everyone down to the station and throw the so-called Comedian in a cell himself.  But it's not really in his temperament to be like this, and he knows it, so he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Byron quakes again; Hollis can hear his wings rustling, brushing against the bench. Hollis has the most irrational urge to sit next to Byron, pat him on the back again, let him shake it out against his shoulder.  But it's a passing thought, a fleeting thing, and he opens his eyes again, calming himself.  It's fresh news.  He hasn't had time to step back a bit.  The victim is in his personal sphere of influence.  He's an officer of the law.  He deals with this sort of thing often enough, even if no one else seems to treat it as seriously as he does.

He can cope.

But _goddamn_ , isn't this why he put the mask on in the first place?  To deal with what the law couldn't – or wouldn't – confront?  He feels small, and useless, and _angry_ , so angry that he didn't see it coming or recognize that predator quality in Eddie's smile.

"God," Byron says helplessly. "I can’t believe this."

Hollis shakes his head again, pushes off and heads for the showers.  He can't talk about it right now, and Byron's no help, and Hollis doesn't really want to admit it but he just wants to go on patrol so he can hit something and pretend it's Eddie.  Or even go and find that little shit himself…  He starts stripping down halfway to the linoleum; a hot shower will help him think, always does, when he feels too involved.

"… Hollis?" Byron's voice wavers slightly, echoing, and Hollis knows they are alone right now, and Byron's always been so sensitive to these sorts of things, and who would know?

Hollis waves over his shoulder, because he doesn't quite trust himself to turn around with Byron _right there_ , and that's the end of the conversation.

\--

"I've always like owls, honestly.  Pleasant birds." Byron waves his new book with grand flourish, grinning crookedly.  Some large-eyed avian glares back from the cover, like it's surprised or angry or just a little too stupid to tell the difference between the two. "Pretty feathers, big eyes, they're actually quite interesting.  Did you know some owls eat moths?"

Hollis shrugs, flipping back through the newspaper again.  It's still early, and he can still feel last night's exhaustion pulling at him.  The side room is quiet around them; it seems like people are staying here less and less often, drifting out and on their ways scarcely before they took a moment to sit down and read the papers. "I don't know much about them, really."

"Oh." Byron's face falls. "Well." He slumps, and thumbs the pages self-consciously. "I thought it was kind of funny, actually.  About the moths.  All things considered."

"What was that?" Hollis asks, glancing up at last from the paper.

Byron sighs. "Nothing, really." He stands, sets the book down in the center of the table like it's some sort of offering, and shrugs. "I’m gonna go on patrol.  See you on third?"

"Yes," Hollis says, after a moment, chewing his lip and reading back through the latest accounts of their vigilante heroism.  He doesn't really hear the door swing shut, but he glances at it anyways, and then down at the book.  His hand twitches, and, impulsively, he sets it on the cover, over the perpetually widened eyes.

 _Some owls eat moths_.

He's not sure what to think about that.

\--

The Silhouette approaches him, making her way along the edges of their group to stand beside him.  She is long rather than slender, sleek rather than slim, and like no other woman he has ever known.  Hollis smiles, and she puts her hand on his shoulder, giving it a comradely squeeze.  Her nails slide over the slicker material of his vest, leaving creases in their wake. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks, gesturing with his club soda. The room is warm, and comfortable, and light conversation drifts around his ears like light-dazed bugs around a porch light. He thinks he should work his way into one of the small clusters, but it's pleasant enough here, just watching; he feels like the old man at the family picnic.

"Oh, yes.  It is a lovely evening, yes?" Silhouette smirks more than smiles, but it's genuine, and friendly. "Come, walk with me."

He hesitates only a moment, following her to stand away from the others, before the window.  The air is perceptibly cooler, here, and he is suddenly all too aware of how muggy the room is, heavy with shared breath and warm bodies. Hollis stares out the glass, out at the world, the city, and smiles to himself.  He's never felt such a purpose, such a strong connection with what he did, not since he was a young rookie just taking to the streets.  The city was a dark place, but they could make it better.  They _were_ making it better. People believed in things again, in God and the flag and the American dream.  And that was enough to make it all worth it, even the grimy parts.

Silhouette laughs, just a little, in the bottom of her throat, and takes a slip on her drink, the almost rough scent of her perfume hanging over them both. "Is it not strange, how our dear Captain hangs on Hooded Justice's arm?  They are close, for men." She tilts her head at the pair, and smiles, silently directing Hollis to take a peek.

He frowns, suddenly distinctly uncomfortable.  HJ and Nelly were, well, they were… there were some things you just didn't talk about, some moments you looked away from.  He understood that implicitly, because they had to stick together and, and besides, who was he to speculate? "We're all pretty close, I suppose." Hollis says dismissively, hoping to skirt around the subject, but Silhouette nods, purrs in the back of her throat, and props one angular shoulder against the window, sets her rump on the sill, one ankle crossing daintily over the other in a gesture too sure of itself to be what Hollis thinks of as feminine.

"Surely you have seen the way they act.  You know."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mm.  Yes, you American men, all red-blooded.  Men's men, or so you say.  It is alright.  It is much the same in my own country." She waves a hand, as if indicating some universal truth. "But, perhaps, you are more amicable to the softer side of such… considerations?"

"I don't think I'm following." He really doesn't want to discuss this. He just wants to retreat, somewhere, anywhere, but everyone else is in conversation and he can't catch anyone's eye but Silhouette's, and hers are entirely too intent for his comfort.

"Here, look. Miss," she says, and her smile curves just a bit more. "Miss _Jupiter_.  She is not so close to Hooded Justice?  She is so far from him, here, now, among friends, yet she hangs on his arm every moment the camera flashes."

"I suppose they can take breaks from each other."

Silhouette rolls her eyes, and knocks back her drink with a coy, teasing air. "Then let me be frank.  My lifestyle is not so, so _accepted_ as most others.  It lends itself to softer sentiments, if you catch my meaning.  Perhaps I would like to have a Sally of my own?  Someone to hang my arm upon from time to time?  It can be a working relationship, I require nothing more from you than your presence." She shrugs, the gesture laden with sultry suggestion. "But I am willing to compromise, if you require such things."

"I, I don't think I'm the person you're looking for," Hollis stammers.

"Oh?"

He looks across the room, and Byron makes some comment and claps Dollar Bill on the arm, his eye catches Hollis's for half a moment, and suddenly Silhouette is laughing, following his gaze.  She covers her mouth demurely, her eyebrows rising as her eyelids drop, and she leans in close.

"Oh, no.  I suppose you are not."

He's not sure what to say to that, if he should rethink her offer or deny it all the more vehemently, and suddenly the conversation is twice as discomforting as it was a moment ago.  Something foreign and fearsome looms, and he turns back to the room at large, keeps the coldness of the window at his back. "I guess not."

She changes the subject, and the rest of the night passes pleasantly enough, but he leaves early that night – amid cajoles and half-sincere excuses – and forgets at least two of his goodbyes.

\--

"You alright?" Byron says, slipping his mask off with one hand and unclipping his wings.  Dollar Bill is further down the row, mumbling to himself as his cape catches on the lip of his locker, tangling him for the umpteenth time that night.

"Just tired. It's been a long night," Hollis says, pulling off his domino mask with a grimace.  He realizes too late he applied the glue a little too liberally, and it catches on his eyelid, coming free with a painful tug and a layer of skin he would have preferred to keep.

"Well, hey, I'm going up to have a drink before heading home.  Care to join me?" Byron grins broadly, and Hollis can’t help but wonder if he has already had one (or two or six) tonight.  His gaze drifts past him as Dollar Bill ducks to undo his laces, Hollis can just see Nelly slip into the side room, can see the edge of Hooded Justice's cape before the door clicks closed.

"Uh, no.  Not tonight.  I've got an early morning ahead of me."

"Oh.  Okay,” Byron says. "Well, have a safe walk home, then."

"Sure, sure.  You too." Hollis says, back in his civilian clothes and already heading for the stairs out.

"Hey, Billy boy, what are you doing tonight?" Byron asks, locker clicking shut, and Hollis is too far away to hear Dollar Bill's answer, but he's already half considering going back down when Sally brushes by, looking sour.  He watches her slam through the front door, debating whether or not she needs a sympathetic ear or just to be left in peace.  Less than a moment later, Silhouette slinks up beside him.

"Goodnight, Nite Owl," she says sweetly, following Sally out with a wink.

Hollis ducks his head, adjusts his collar, and waits a few moments before taking his own leave.

Like he said, an early morning ahead of him.

\--

Silhouette has been gone for some months, exorcised from them almost without cause – with good reason, he supposes – and he knows he's terribly conflicted.  Everything in his upbringing tells him it is _wrong_ , so wrong, that there was something alien inside of her, but he _knew_ her, watched her back from time to time just as she watched his, and he knows what they did was inexcusable.  What he did.  They tossed one of their own number to the wolves to spare themselves such scrutiny.

And, just a little bit, Hollis thinks it somehow comes back to him, specifically.  That it wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been so damn stubborn.  It weighs on his mind throughout the week, and in the early hours of the morning, when he stumbles back into bed sore and often bruised, he wonders if she blamed him too.

\--

"Have you ever… have you ever thought about what we're—" Hollis loses the thread of what he means, pressing his palm against his forehead as if that has ever helped at all.  "… what we're going to do after all this?"

"After all what?" Byron asks, sitting beside Hollis, adjusting the straps on his outfit, gearing it up for a late night's glide.  The tip of his tongue sticks out just a little as he works, like an old cartoon, and it swivels from side to side whenever he fumbles.

"I'm just thinking, but, well, after all that— _that_ with the Silhouette…" He trails off meaningfully but Byron's still looking down, stubborn, so Hollis sighs and drums his fingers on his own knees. "What do we do after we stop this?"

"This?"

"Adventuring.  Busting crime.  We'll get up there eventually, be old men.  Everybody does.  We can't keep this up forever." He pauses. “I can’t keep this up forever.”

At this Byron finally pauses, and his hand trembles a little before he can start on the buckles again. "Oh.  I, uh.  I never really thought about it." Which has to be utter and complete bull; Hollis can’t _not_ think about it.   The idea smothers him, follows him relentlessly on and on and sends him tossing and turning all through the long night.

"I don't know. Just, after— Ursula," Hollis grimaces, thinks it's a little strange that he only learned the true name of the woman he had worked so long with a few weeks after her death. "After Ursula was, um, was 'found out'…"

Byron's stopped working completely, just resting his hands on his detached wing, staring at the fabric like he's never seen the like before.  He rubs a line anxiously, licks his lips, glances to the door.  His voice cracks on the first syllable, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Do you… do you think that it was… wrong?  To send her out like that?"

"I don't know.  Maybe.  I liked Ursula, I liked her a lot.  She was a…" He pauses to think of a suitable way to describe her in all her contradictions, of late one of his own fellow Minutemen. "… an exceptional woman, for the most part.  One of a kind," Hollis says thoughtfully, drumming on his knees again, uncomfortably aware of Byron staring, eyes boring into the side of his head. "But it was wrong, what she was doing.  Morally wrong." His stomach flip-flops as he says it.

"Ah."

They lapse into silence, Byron goes back to work, and Hollis wonders why he's suddenly feels so queasy.

\--

Dollar Bill is dead.

Byron is starting to slip up more, get nervous and shakes almost without reason, and suddenly their evening patrols are getting shorter.  Twice Hollis comes back to the base to find Byron already deep in his fourth or fifth bottle, wings still strapped to his shoulders and mask firmly tugged down.  More times than he can count, he finds evidence of harder stuff.  He knows what he’s looking at, even if he doesn’t want to.

Hollis joins him less and less often, usually trotting down to the quiet showers and getting out of his disguise alone.  He is starting to feel tired all the time, even when he gets a full night's sleep, and all the excitement has gone out of it.  His bruises are staying longer than they would have a year ago, and he swears he found a white hair last week.

But he still shows up every night, dutiful to the last, and sometimes the others do too.

"Is there something wrong with us?  All of us?" Byron asks Hollis, once, as he's going by, intent on warm water and a thick lather to wash away the sweat of a night spent flailing against a tide Hollis has only just become aware of.   Hollis draws to a stop, opening his mouth to ask what Byron means but pauses half a second too long, and knows that window has passed.

Byron trembles, struggling to turn a body that just doesn't want to respond, and Hollis ignores how bleary Mothman's eyes are behind the mask.  How he is full of a tenderness that stings.  "Because I'm— because HJ and Nelly—"

"Hold on," Hollis says, because he doesn't want to discuss this with Byron, with Mothman, with anyone. "Let me get changed," he says, lightly, knowing he's running even if he hates to admit it.

Byron knows, too.  He's certain of it.

"Yeah.  Sure.  See you on third?"

"Yeah."

By the time Hollis gets back, Byron's gone, either home or elsewhere, and Hollis is just grateful enough to be disgusted with himself on the walk home.

\--

Things are going downhill fast.  Too fast to keep up.  Hollis can't remember the last time he looked forward to his nighttime routine.

Sometimes it's good to give up while you're ahead.  At least ahead enough to make it worth it.

All at once he decides he's staying in, keeping to himself, just to test it out.  Turns on the radio, scrounges through the kitchen for a decent meal, something that is complicated enough to warrant careful examination of ingredients and instructions.  Even then, he's never had much skill with cooking, and he ruins at least half of what he set out to make.  He eats in peace, burned parts and all, listening to the soothing voices over the airwaves talking about things far beyond his understanding.  Things about _radiation_ and _intrinsic fields_ and a man who is more than a man.  He turns in early, for the first time in too long, and leaves the plate on the counter, by the sink.

It's the longest night he's ever had.

\--

Hollis would say he didn't see it coming, but truth be told, he did.  He knew where it was all going right from the start.   Between what happened with the other Minutemen, and the HUAC, and Byron’s nervous temperament, and his drinking – already a problem, God, they really should have said something – it was just a matter of time.  It's one of the things that weighs on Hollis, just enough to ache, when he finally sits down in front of his typewriter, and wonders where the hell this all started.

\--

It's years later, and Hollis is an old man now.  He's had a good run, has gotten off better than most and worse than others, but he's proud of a life that – for the most part – hasn't been terribly disappointing.  A young man starts writing him, an eager boy with his head in the clouds and just enough spark for Hollis to take him up.  Hollis doesn't have much to do these days; he's an old hat, now, all his tricks have been used up.  He never married; he never met the right person, though he often found people he liked well enough.  He hasn't seen much of his old friends, his fellow vigilantes, and only occasionally he wishes they all could've kept going, could still see each other without feeling raw.  But the memories— Hollis clings to those fondly, old photographs and memorabilia, and for the most part he's happy for all it gave him, even if he regrets it sometimes, when it's dark and it's just him and his thoughts.

He thinks he should go, should travel out to that lonely place in Maine he's been so careful about avoiding any mention of.  But there's always a reason to stay where he is, even when he really has nothing else to do.  It's better that way, letting sleeping dogs lie. He’s too set in his ways to go changing now, even if the world insists on leaving him behind.

"Listen," he says, after his third face-to-face meeting with Daniel, schematics and incomprehensible designs spread out for his inspection and input, limited as it is. "I want you to do a favor for me."

"Yeah, anything." Daniel – all quick nods and smiles and enthusiasm – sits forward on his seat, mug held tightly between his palms. He is full of restless energy, and idealism.  Hollis hopes he can hold onto it.

"I want you to go down to see an old friend of mine."

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism welcomed.


End file.
